


The Junkyard

by IreneClaire



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Bromance, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Claustrophobia, Confessions, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Night Terrors, Original Character(s), PTSD Danny, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, supportive Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9427805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneClaire/pseuds/IreneClaire
Summary: My take on why Danny might be claustrophobic. A belated birthday gift for Cargumentluv. Much bromance and a little whumpage.He turned around on his knees, his back against the cold slick of the back wall. He blinked wildly in a darkness that was so pitch, he couldn't even see his own finger in front of his face. But he could hear the dog scrabbling at the closed door. He could hear the man's voice, muffled as it was ... stunned when he heard the sharp bark of a sadistic laugh."Stuck are ya, boy?" The junkyard owner drawled with glee. "Trespass ... will ya?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cargumentluv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cargumentluv/gifts).



> This story was a seed of mine for a very long time ... something I'd wanted to do but didn't quite find the right focus. The muse seems to have come through after ages of pondering and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or any characters. No copyright infringement intended.

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Newark, New Jersey. Time Stamp: Late October: 25 years earlier.** _

Legs pumping, he ran hard. The dog was on their heels and Danny didn't chance a glance over his shoulder. Instead, he kept the younger kid in front of him, his hand fisted in the back of the kid's hoodie. In his other hand, all he had was a poor excuse for a pocket-knife. The thing was old, rusty and so badly bent that it probably hadn't been folded back into his dented aluminum sheath for years.

But it was all he had against the aggressive dog and the animal's equally ugly owner.

"That way!" Danny gasped as he shoved the kid towards a hole in the fence. He wasn't sure he could fit, but the younger boy probably could.

He skidded across the dirt on his knees, giving himself some decent bruises and scrapes in the process while tearing at the rent in the chain links. "Go …  _go_!"

"But!" Danny looked into the boy's terrified eyes and managed to give him a cocky, arrogant grin.

"Just ... _go_! Get out of here!" Then Danny was shoving at the boy again and forcing him through the break; forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees despite the tears which were streaking the kid's face. Without looking as his name was called out, Danny tore off down the fence line looking for a way now to protect himself. Or, even find some help.

But he tripped over a twisted metal pipe and fell hard, losing precious minutes and almost that lousy excuse for a knife. Practically growling under his breath as the dog barked so much closer, Danny jerked to his feet. The man was close too … egging on his dog and yelling threats which Danny wholeheartedly believed would be carried out. He had zero doubts that the dog was a killer and could tear his limbs from his body. And whatever the dog left, he was sure the man would have his head served up on a platter.

Panting and eyes wide, he paused before ducking between two burned out metal shells. Old station-wagons Danny just registered as he forged on. There was bad bad smell there as he squeezed through, and he grimaced before needing to throw his arm over his nose. The smell was a foul stench. Much worse as he passed by the front of the one-time vehicle. But he forgot the smell as soon as he heard the angry shout behind him.  _Too close!_ Spurred on by fear, Danny ducked and weaved between scrap metal and other busted up cars. Things which once might have held a purpose, but were all now relegated to a slow twisted death within the confines of the old junkyard.

He stopped for a barely a second, unsure of where to go. Literally able to hear the dog's paws on the hard-pack, the terrifying jangle of the tags on its thick studded collar. He could  _hear_  the man's breath … and his pursuers were too close. He'd never be able to hold them off long enough.

He ran wildly now giving up on the fence line and opting for the small brick building. Equally lined with refuse and a hodgepodge of junk, both large and small, it might at least give him some refuge if he could just find a hole or remote darkened space. At least -  _something_  - until the man and dog might move to another side of the rambling dump of a place.

Staying low, he dodged and tripped over pieces of metal, wood and garbage, almost pleased with himself for having made it to the small building unseen. From behind an old mildewy stack of pallets, he peered through its broken slats. Eyes narrowed and holding his breath even though his chest was tight with a desperate need to breathe, Danny caught a glimpse of the man and forced himself to stay quiet. The dog was arrogantly trotting just a few feet in front of its owner, its head on a swivel, scenting for him.

Danny froze as the two stopped as one. He prayed they'd just go away … just  _give up_  … but as soon as he'd finished the silent plea, they were on the move again. Not  _away_  as he'd so desperately wanted, but  _towards_  him.

Of its own volition, Danny's right hand patted the brick wall. Dusk was falling and he used some of the newly cast shadows as cover, but that loss of light was also beginning to limit his ability to see.

He edged along quietly, stepping carefully and seeking a place to hide whether it be high or low. When his hand connected with the cold, slim outline of a handle he automatically levered it down, wincing as the old spring gave a tired squeak. Ever so cautiously, he opened that door and peered quickly inside, wincing at the acrid old smell which burst out. He nearly gagged at the odor which was a mix of dead fish, mildew and  _only God knew_  what else. But with no other options and enough room for his small body, he squeezed through into the gutted out space. He'd planned to keep the palm of his hand on the inside of the door just in case … _just in case_  the unreliable rusted door locked him inside.

He'd meant to do that so he could keep an eye or ear on his pursuers. But just as he squeezed in, he heard it. The jangle, the angry blood-thirsty growl and he panicked as the dog closed ranks.

Danny fell forward, his forehead slamming into the rear wall of the small space just as the dog's front paws collided with the outside of the door, slamming it shut with a resounding clap. Plunged into darkness, Danny couldn't hide his yelp of pain as his teeth were rattled hard enough for him to accidentally bite his tongue.

He turned around on his knees, his back against the cold slick of the back wall. He blinked wildly in a darkness that was so pitch, he couldn't even see his own finger in front of his face. But he could hear the dog scrabbling at the closed door. He could  _hear_  the man's voice, muffled as it was ... stunned when he  _heard_  the sharp bark of a sadistic laugh.

"Stuck are ya, boy?" The junkyard owner drawled with glee. "Trespass ... will ya?"

Danny reached out blindly to just touch his side of the door. There was no latch, handle or hinge. Nothing but cold, cool metal.

"Let me out," Danny whispered, his fear suddenly spiking to an all time high. Surely the man wouldn't just leave him like this? Not like this? He wasn't sure if the man heard him or not. But it didn't matter because the junkyard owner obviously had other ideas about teaching him a lesson.

Gasping in fright, Danny nearly dropped the small knife he had still managed to hold as sound engulfed him. The thudding of the man's fists on the outside of his prison was loud and erratically tympanic. It hurt his ears until he was practically deafened.

"Stop ….  _stop_  it! Let me out!" He begged while slamming his hands over his ears, not realizing the man couldn't hear him over his own sadistic laughing or the sounds of the excited dog which was now barking incessantly.

"Let me out!" Danny screamed, wishing that he'd never taken on the dare to go to the junkyard ... steal an old license plate as proof. Now, hoping against hope that Mattie  _would_  tell … that his kid brother who he'd managed to force through that fence  _would_  tell so that his father would come to save him because the junkyard man was insane like the older neighborhood kids had always said. He and his dog  _were_  killers!

Knees drawn up tight to his chest, Danny began to shake. He was trying his level best not to cry, but at ten-years old, his usual stoic disposition had reached its breaking point even after the horrible pounding had stopped.

Danny opened his mouth to apologize ... lesson more than well learned. He was about to say something ... anything ... until the old appliance started to move. At first slow, it jerked just a bit until the junkyard man got a better momentum going.

He lost his private struggle to not cry as the old appliance began to  _really_  rock from side to side. Danny squealed in fear as he was tossed to and fro. He tried to brace himself on the inside, but his sneakers held no traction and his sweaty fingers had nothing to grip onto along the smooth inner walls.

"Stop! Please ... stop!" Danny pleaded just one more time. Just once before there was a moment where it felt as if he and the old refrigerator were suspended in mid-air on an axis. And then ... he was falling. Like a marble inside a tin can, Danny fell hard on his right side as the old appliance lost its own battle against man and gravity.

Danny shrieked inside his prison as it toppled over sideways. Arms flaying inside the small space, he cut his hand on the old knife and banged his temple so hard that he saw a make-believe flux of tiny stars twinkling sickeningly in the blackness.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	2. Chapter 2

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Honolulu, Hawaii. Time Stamp: Late October: Current Day.** _

"Hey, hey, hey," Steve soothed softly, hands raised and his body in a wary half-crouch. "It's just me; it's only me … come on, D., snap out of it."

His voice was drowned out though by a loud clap of thunder and a gust of wind which rattled the house down to its very foundation. The storm raged on and was bad even for island standards, yet so much more had gone inexplicably sideways.

"Danny, it's me," Steve tried again. "Danny? It's only me. It's Steve."

He kept his hands visible the entire time he waited for his friend to either recognize him or provide him with an opening. He needed something because Danny was wide-eyed and frantic, and definitely unable to snap out of anything, a steak knife raised high in his hand. The very sharpest which Steve had in the butcher block.

He watched warily as Danny, barefoot and clad only in a pair of baggy sweatpants, backed himself into a corner of the kitchen. He wedged himself tightly there, trembling from head to toe, the knife's blade glinting the golden hue cast by the battery-powered camping lanterns. His voice shaking just as badly as his body through his repetitive, nonsensical murmurs.

"I can't … _can't_ … ," he repeated brokenly, sweat glistening across his face, neck and chest. "I can't … stay in here ... can't breathe …. can't …"

Steve didn't need to ask about the meaning behind the ramblings; he knew. Even though Danny had never told him the truth of the how or why of it. Steve _knew_. He watched Danny closely. The small butterfly bandage on his temple was falling off, revealing the small but nasty, purpling abrasion. Sustained earlier that day when a rotted board had fallen away under Danny's heel as he descended below deck on old boat, the wound was really nothing … it had only bled enough to warrant a tiny bandage. Steve thought back to the boat, wondering if he'd missed something. But no, he hadn't. Danny had been nothing more than disgusted; inconvenienced by the need to return to the Camaro for their First Aid med kit. He'd been back down below deck with him less than five minutes later and bitching about that last step. Blaming the rough waters in the marina for his loss of balance. Those things ... and the stench from the decomposing body. And hell, who hadn't been? Saying what the dock master had stumbled across was _bad_ was more than an understatement. Steve, himself, had sent two HPD officers packing before their convulsive swallows could physically worsen enough to contaminate the crime scene. They'd both vanished up the worn old steps, fleeing the opressive quarters, before he'd finished speaking.

"Danny?" Steve frowned as he gauged Danny's intentions. One hand was brandishing that damnable knife. The other hand, fingers splayed wide, was up high, too. But not to ward something or someone off, but searchingly … beseechingly. _Plaintively_.

It was a weird juxtaposition. Offense and defense warring as one in a face so pale, that the glassy blue of Danny's eyes stood out like beacons in the darkness of the kitchen.

Steve innately knew where Danny thought he was. Trapped in some nameless place. Somewhere small, tight and airless. He just didn't know the when, why nor how of it all and he sure as hell didn't have the time to call New Jersey. What was happening that very minute, Steve should have gently inquired about years earlier when he'd first learned of Danny's claustrophobic tendencies. His scrappy partner certainly hadn't been born afraid of small spaces. Of course not. The phobia had been created … forged by some horrific event. It had deep roots somewhere in Danny's past and Steve simply didn't have enough information. A fact he most soundly kicked himself about now because Danny was mired there in some terrifying memory and Steve didn't know how to _help_.

"Shit, Danny," Steve muttered as he watched the knife dip. It almost appeared as if Danny might drop it, but _no_ ... his fingers were firm on the hilt. "Where are you right now?"

"Can't … can't …. breathe," Danny rasped out, the fingers of his free hand now clawing at his throat against some ... imagined attack? No, that seemed wrong. So maybe not an attack ... maybe just a desperate need to breathe in real air... _fresh_ air? Steve couldn't tell which and he once again mentally kicked himself for not being able to help.

He grimaced unhappily as the hand holding the knife waved sloppily through the air. He could manage the broken words at that point - the partial sentences - and when the time was right, he'd even cope with whatever had happened so long ago, but what he couldn't deal with at that very moment was the dangerous glint of the sharp blade.

"Danny?" He nodded almost in relief as Danny intentionally lowered the blade. But that sense of relief was short-lived. In stunned surprise, Steve watched as Danny casually flipped the knife to face the palm of his hand.

"No! _No_! Danny!" Steve hissed as Danny erratically but determinedly poked the point into the flashy part of his palm before dragging it a short distance along his skin.

Steve heard Danny gasp as he ran the razor sharp edge along his palm, the fine steel cutting skin as if it were softened butter. He gasped at the pain he caused himself, but didn't seem to come back to center. There was still no awareness in those distant eyes. Nothing. _Nothing_ , even when not a moment later, a tear drop of darkened moisture appeared, its red dulled by the light.

"Danny!" Steve whistled his name through clenched teeth as that welling drop of blood became a larger glistening stain, uncertain of what to do as the blade swung up again. "What the hell?"

But the blade didn't stay up this time. Without really thinking as Danny's hand finally …. _finally_ ... truly wavered, Steve edged forward quickly, staying low and soft-kneed. Posture easy and yet ready to act. As far as he was concerned, Steve felt that he was running out of time. He knew that he had to do more than try and negotiate as a narrow trail of blood began to trickle from Danny's palm, down towards his wrist.

"Danny, give me the knife. Put that damned thing down."

Instead of answering him though, Danny suddenly blinked wildly. He coughed a ragged sound, his free hand pawing at his face, wincing when his fingers connected with the superficial cut on his temple. He shuddered then, the fingers around the knife spasming and loosening. With a stunned exhale, Danny simply slid the rest of the way down the cabinets, to sit on the floor with a soft thump. This was as close as Steve was going to get and he lunged forward to wrest the knife away. He'd more than half expected a fight or some kind of struggle, but Danny wasn't doing either of those things.

Steve easily tore the blade away to send it clattering away across the kitchen floor. Holding Danny from behind in a bear hug, Steve was incredulous as Danny virtually hung limp within his arms.

"What's got into you?" Steve murmured as he closed his eyes, bowing his head to rest his forehead on the top of Danny's hair while his spike of adrenalin continued to coarse through his system, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Steve waited Danny out right where they were, talking nonsense into Danny's hair as his friend began to mutter unintelligible pleas into the air. He'd never seen a nightmare this bad outside his military tours of duty. It certainly ranked up there with any other comparable post traumatic disorders and he chastised himself for ever daring to think about taking Danny's complaints about swimming or jogging or claustrophobia - or, really _anything_ \- so lightly.

From that moment on, he'd never have the audacity to lob a joke or jibe Danny's way ever again.

"Crap, Danno." Cautiously, Steve shifted so that he could sit more comfortably on the floor, dragging Danny along with him so that Danny sat cushioned and protected within Steve's arms and tucked up tight against his chest. "You're like ice, buddy."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Danny shivered right there. Shivered. _Hard_. As if he were really, truly freezing to death.

Steve frowned, shifting Danny's upper body to the side in order to get a better look at this face. But he froze in place and tightened his grip when Danny unexpectedly garbled a shout. With no recourse at all, Steve tightened his hold protectively.

"Easy, easy," Steve said. "Easy, Danno ... I got you. I got you." Danny was literally juddering in his arms, his muscles spasming as if he might be falling. He shouted a second time, the sound garbled yet fraught with a very real sense of terror. It lasted no more than a second or two, but the episode was startling nonetheless.

By now, Steve was truly at a loss.

Things had changed. Danny's eyes were tightly closed, his breathing rapid and loud, an occasional cough sounding on every other harsh exhaled rasp. As he watched, Danny gave a convulsive swallow, his upper body briefly stiffening before falling still. His hands fell lax just as his breathing quieted along with the slackening of his expression. A low confused moan emanated deeply from within his chest. By all indications, it was almost as if he was falling asleep, yet … not quite.

_What the hell had just happened?_

Steve frowned, unsure of what to do. In the least though, he could check the wound on Danny's hand. Letting Danny go just enough, he hyper-extended his upper body towards the countertop. He felt backwards and blindly for a towel or something he could use to wrap around Danny's palm.

When he found a mostly clean towel, Steve gently wrapped it around the wound, relieved that it was barely more than a scratch. Wondering if he might try to wake his partner or try to move him to at least a more comfortable place, Steve froze when Danny started to twitch and mumble again.

"Let me out. Please … get me _out_ ," Danny whined nearly inaudibly and Steve tiredly rocked his head back into the cabinet he leaned against. He briefly closed his own eyes with a dismal sigh because Danny still wasn't there just yet.

"Where are you in that thick head of yours, Danny?" Steve asked forlornly. "Where ... _where_ are you, huh? Where can I find you … where are you? How can I help you, buddy?"

"Help me ... _please_ ," Danny moaned as he began to shiver in earnest, his face twisting in distress. "Cold … s'cold. I'm … cold. _Please_."

Then ever so softly and so, so quiet that Steve almost thought he didn't hear him quite right, Danny sobbed. " _D-Dad."_

 

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	3. Chapter 3

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Newark, New Jersey. Time Stamp: Late October: 25 years earlier.** _

All in all: he'd given up.

He simply couldn't grasp the concept that the junkyard man hadn't come back. That he was just so … _mean_. So very _evil_.

Of course Danny knew that bad people existed. Of course he did. But he'd never met one first-hand; certainly never been the direct recipient of such hatred. At first afraid the man or the dog might return to hurt him even more, Danny had remained quiet. He'd listened hard for a long time, hearing nothing more than his own erratically panted breathing. Disbelief at the utter silence around him had at first blossomed into anger and he'd shouted and yelled … so _angry_ that he'd said nasty words which his mother would have sent him to his room for … at least for a week ... maybe forever.

That anger had eventually changed though ... it had melted away to become a very real sense of soul-deep terror and his shouts had become frantic pleas for help. He'd become hysterical. He'd burst into tears, calling out brokenly until his voice had completely failed; banging and kicking against the walls and old door of the refrigerator until he'd hurt himself. All of that though had brought him nothing more than a tiny sliver of light and bruised, swollen hands ... nothing else.

Now, Danny lay there curled up on his side staring at that sliver of brightness. And really by then, because night had fallen in earnest, that tiny wedge was merely a smidgen of grayish-black not as pitch as everything else around him. It was eerily quiet outside, too, and he was shaking violently. He couldn't get the door more open than it was. After kicking at it for what seemed like hours, it wasn't nearly enough. Older appliances were heavy, built to last, and the door was a leaden weight. Twisted and wedged into the ground, Danny had barely managed to break the seal of the strong gasket around its rusted metal frame.

He'd been lucky in doing that much. Making his challenge worse, the junkyard man had toppled the old refrigerator over onto its side so its door would have to be opened up like the hatchback to a car.

Danny simply wasn't big enough or strong enough to make that heavy door budge more than the tiny inch he'd won. Completely wrung out, that tiny inch had taken all of his energy in spades. He'd jarred his ankles with his frantic attempts, panic spurring him on until he felt faint from hyperventilating.

One final attempt at freedom had yielded even less. He'd broken off the blade of his pocketknife after only two tries at digging through the hard-packed, nearly frozen ground. His fingernails were now ragged and stained with both dried blood and dirt from where he'd tried to then claw himself a larger hole. He'd gotten nowhere.

Tears stained Danny's face as he stared mutely at that tiny bit of won light while he alternated between fearing the junkyard man's return … and that of the crazed dog …. and wishing the man would just come back to get things over with. But nothing happened.

Devastated and alone, Danny lay there hurting ... both physically and mentally: _no one was coming._

Lying on his side in the darkness, Danny's sobs had turned into hiccupped, snuffled wheezes. His chest burned nearly as badly as his throat. Night had fallen and besides being so scared, he was freezing cold. His hands were like ice, his teeth were chattering and in fact, his whole body was quaking. Only clad in a dark blue hoody like his kid brother, he was hardly dressed properly for the change in temperature going into that late October night and the old refrigerator was like a conductor. A conductor of sheer, biting cold; it leached through the frozen ground. The plunge in temperature settled a glittery diaphanous layer of frosty mist along the rusty metal exterior ... and the old refrigerator soaked it all up like a thirsty sponge.

Snuffling, Danny forced his achy fingers to tug the hood to his sweatshirt up in an attempt to get warmer. Using his teeth, he then pulled the bulky cuffs long to cover his bruised hands, wincing at the bloody cut he'd garnered from the useless pocketknife. It was a little better, but not too much. He was cold and miserable … barely functioning and quite frankly, in a state of shock.

Every so often he thought he could see a bit of breathy fog as he exhaled. But he thought that might be his imagination. There were more real moments where he couldn't breathe right at all and he'd cough for a few minutes, his vision dimming around the edges.

 _"H-help_ ... please ... _please_ ," Danny sniffed brokenly, so confused by what was happening. He just didn't understand how or why the junkyard man could just leave him.

Danny coughed again as a hiccup seized his chest even tighter, making him momentarily breathless. Mired inside a blackness so small that he couldn't even straighten his legs, he was exhausted, sore and terrified... worse yet, he simply wasn't getting enough air. Growing increasingly petrified that he might really suffocate, Danny mewled in distress before shifting just a bit to angle his face towards the tiny break he'd managed to earn between the ground and the damaged door. He closed his eyes when he felt tears welling again, his fingers balled into tight fists under the material of his shirt sleeves, desperately searching for even the smallest puff of air which might sneak in to caress his cheek.

"Please … l-let me out. I'll b-be g-good," he whimpered suddenly. His eyes smarted and he coughed, biting back a sob as a terrible, new thought came to mind. _Suppose Mattie didn't tell?_ He might not have because - before they'd even gotten to the bus station - Danny had threatened to beat the crap out of his little brother if he told. And Danny had acted like he'd meant it. He'd been furious with Mattie for daring to put up such a fuss in the first place. With his kid brother making threats of his own if he couldn't go with him to the junkyard, Danny felt as if he'd been pressured to let him tag along and now … _now_ look what had happened!

So yeah. There was a real good chance that Mattie wouldn't tell at all.

But ... but if he _did_ tell, what then? Would his father know where to look? Would Danny's father know how to find him?

 _Then ... God._ Suppose … just _suppose_ that Mattie didn't get away in the first place? _Suppose_ the bad man and his dog had found his baby brother? Mattie could be dead … and that would be Danny's fault too. No one would find either one of them ever again!

So many things had gone wrong that day. If Mattie was okay and if Danny managed to get found, there would be hell to pay for his actions. But ... what if the junkyard man had found Mattie first? With a distressed moan as thought after terrible thought took on lives of their own inside of his head, Danny screwed his eyes tightly shut.

 _No, no ._.. he couldn't think like that ... Mattie _had_ at least gotten away; Danny had seen to that much. And Mattie would be scared, too. And because he'd be scared ... he _would_ tell.

"Dad … I want … to g-go home!" Homesick and terrified, Danny bit back a broken sob, refusing to think anything except that Mattie _had_ gotten away and would tell their parents. He just _had_ to!

He had to because, this time, Danny didn't know what to do in his little arsenal of mental tools. His father was a fireman and Danny knew a thing or two from the fascinatingly frightening stories he'd been told around the dinner table. Then there were those things which his father had simply taught him. So, Danny knew about fires and the basics of how to protect himself; how to get out of a burning building. He knew the essentials of what to do ... who to call.

He also knew a lot about carbon monoxide poisoning and he'd heard about what could happen when you didn't have enough air to breathe. Worse yet, he'd heard about kids getting trapped inside things …. things like old appliances left for the hauler. Kids trapped … like he was now … who no one could find in time. He'd heard the anger in his father's voice if a news report might mention such an unfortunate incident.

 _'Irresponsible! Put the damned thing on its face. Or, better yet, just use a screwdriver to take the whole damned door off!_ '

Through his father, Danny heard these stories … and he knew he should stay away from things like this because they were dangerous. They were not things to play near, in or on. But for all that he knew and for all that he'd heard, he'd managed to get himself stuck. And now, he simply didn't know what to do.

As his lay there curled on his side and trapped inside such a tiny space, Danny heard his father's voice. He heard all of those warnings and began to imagine every single one of them happening to him. He clearly heard his father reprimanding him for his sheer stupidity, too.

' _What were you thinking Danny to take on such a dare? What in the world were you thinking to take the bus so far from home to the outskirts of town … with your baby brother in tow … to settle a bet? To prove something? What were you thinking? Didn't I raise you better than this?'_

Danny gulped down another sob and sniffled as his father shouted at him inside his head, wishing beyond hope that it was for real. He _wanted_ to get yelled. He wanted to miss dessert for a year … be grounded for life. He would take whatever penance his father decided to dole out to him and he'd be happy to take it all.

Danny didn't care one iota what his father did to him …. as his breath hitched, and he felt a wave of nauseating dizziness ... he wanted to see him. He wanted to know that Mattie was okay and safe.

He just wanted - more than anything in the world - to be found.

"D-Dad ...please," Danny pleaded with a heart wrenching sob. " _Please_ ... help me."

He just wanted to see his dad. He just wanted to go _home_.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	4. Chapter 4

 

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Honolulu, Hawaii. Time Stamp: Late October. Current Day** _

" _D-Dad_... Dad?" Danny whispered on a low whine, furrows deeply indented across his forehead. He opened his eyes slowly and blinked once, then twice. More than half expecting to be somewhere else - to _see_ someone else - Danny felt disembodied, off center, his thoughts swirling erratically on a worrisome tide and it took him a long time to reconcile where he really ... _wasn't_. For minutes on end and still trembling, Danny couldn't readily wrap his head around what had just happened as reality eked back in at a snail's pace.

Anticipating cold, he was ... warm and comfortable, two key things which allowed some of the terror to begin to ebb away. But he struggled to shake off the full affects of that night terror. It had wrapped him up and shuttled him back like the hated enemy it was with a frightening clarity. It had been so vivid ... so real ... that he could still feel the cool sheen of sweat dotting his face and trickling down his back.

_He could feel the cold slick of the metal ... smell the foul odors which seemed forever stuck in his nose. He could hear that tell-tale metallic jingle of the junkyard dog's tags on its black, studded collar._

Danny shuddered involuntarily, feeling slightly nauseous. He was slow to come back to center, but he eventually knew what had happened ... he knew it had been bad, too. Willing himself to calm the rapid beating of his heart, Danny stared upwards and immediately frowned at the odd view ... of _what_? The shadows were deep and his sense of perception suffered for it. This wasn't his home ... this was ... where?

He briefly closed his eyes, palming his forehead hard, re-opening his eyes and forcing himself to settle ... to just think until it all just clicked into place. It was a ceiling. He was staring up at a … ceiling. _Ceiling_? Steve's ... ceiling. In _Steve's_ ... kitchen.

And his comfort then? A subtle shift of his body proved that he was indeed lying flat on his back ... and most definitely staring up at Steve's white kitchen ceiling: his head propped up on a pillow and his body covered by a heavy blanket. There was only one possible explanation for all of this ... and Danny visibly winced.

" _Crap_ ," Danny muttered under his breath. Steve's kitchen ... the pillow. The blanket. He had been _watched_ ... in fact, Danny was still being watched that very minute. He could feel it. With an aggrieved sigh for his plight and wondering how he was going to explain himself, Danny stayed right where he was. He stayed on his back while he turned his head to look around because Steve wouldn't have gone far.

The room was half-lit in a pleasing yellowed-light by strategically placed camping lanterns, which explained the depth of shadow being cast across the room. Still, the noise of the storm was nearly deafening as wind and rain swirled around the strong foundation of Steve's house. Danny heard that stormy clatter now too as he regained his mental equilibrium. Then, across from where he lay was the man himself … definitely not Mattie. Nor his father. Knees drawn up, elbows rested loosely over them and head rocked tiredly back into the wall, Steve's silhouette was unmistakable. The glitter of his eyes telling as Danny confirmed his friend was most certainly watching him like a hawk.

"You okay?" Steve asked far too carefully when their eyes finally met.

"Oh … man. Oh _man_ … what did I do? I'm sorry," Danny breathed out as he rolled onto his side to better see his friend. He was exhausted despite having not actually woken during the episode. It was as if his mind had been on triple time and his body merely along for the terrible ride. But he'd been here before, so wasn't entirely surprised by that feeling of bone-weary tiredness.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Steve replied in all honestly, a simple shrug compounding that there was nothing to potentially be embarrassed about. No reason for Danny to worry, though he would certainly have some explaining to do.

Danny shifted more onto his hip, confused by the flash of white which he caught out of the corner of his eye. The subsequent sound he made seconded that look of bewilderment when he saw the small bandage on his hand and his brow furrowed in distress.

"What ... what's this?" Danny blurted out.

"You cut yourself on a knife," Steve provided blandly. "It's ...not too bad. I bandaged it." His tone was calm; too calm and Danny knew then that his episode had been one of stellar proportions.

"Uh ... thanks," Danny muttered under his breath, scarcely knowing what to say next as his worst scenario slowly came true. "Thanks ... it must have been a bad one." He flexed his fingers distractedly as his mind raced forward, cranking through what might have happened. What Steve might have seen ... or even heard him say. It had been a while since he'd revisited this particular part of his past and certainly even longer since anyone had born witness to it.

"Are you okay? Did I do anything ... else?" Danny quietly asked, now refusing to meet Steve's eyes. "You're okay ... right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Steve said softly with a quizzical tilt to his head. Evidently he was, but ready to maintain that Danny most certainly was not. "You've been sleeping a few hours and I've just been ... waiting. But you need to tell me ... first, what do you mean by ' _a bad one_ ', Danno? Then, fill me in on how many times this has happened. When … and better yet … _why_?"

"God, I'm so sorry, Steve," Danny repeated miserably. Instead of saying more though, Danny's voice trailed off while he shook his head slowly from side to side, hoping that Steve would accept his silence. He didn't want to talk. This was something he most definitely didn't want to talk about or discuss. Ever. However, Danny could have counted the seconds it took for Steve to object on one hand because his friend wouldn't hear of it. Not at all.

"Nope. You need to tell me," Steve insisted. "I want to talk to you, Danny. Help if I can … but I want you to tell me. I need you to tell me what happened … all of it."

"I'm fine ... it's all fine," Danny murmured. "I really ... just don't ...there's nothing ..."

"Okay, let me start then because I can guess a few things," Steve countered quickly. "Whatever just happened is the reason you don't like tight spaces ... what I just saw you go through was caused by a traumatic event, Danny. I know PTSD when I see it; and whatever happened? It's the reason why you're claustrophobic because you sure as hell weren't born that way. Not you."

Danny made a face but didn't say a single word. His reluctance to speak practically gave Steve permission to continue, which he did in that same, overly calm tone.

"You were young … a kid when whatever happened … _happened_. You got stuck inside something small … really _small_ and no one found you for a very, very long time. But maybe your dad did eventually … your dad was there, wasn't he? Am I right?"

"My … my _dad_?" Danny choked out, eyes wide in surprise. "But … _how_?" He swallowed hard, feeling the stinging threat of tears even as his mouth opened to argue that assumption until Steve held up his hand.

"No, let me finish. Tell me if I'm right, Danno. So I'm guessing that this wasn't an accident … not really," Steve continued with a firm persistence. "What? How old were you, Danny? Eight or nine? Maybe ten years old? It doesn't really matter though, does it? I bet that you were just being a kid … and something bad happened to you … something really, really terrible, Danny. So what was it? Come on, buddy, you can tell me … maybe it'll help."

Danny snorted incredulously in an attempt to downplay Steve's words, most of which were darn good guesses. "I thought I was the detective in his relationship," Danny snarked back weakly. "You're terrible at this, Steven."

The sarcasm fell short though, especially when Steve refused to be baited. In a sheer act of willful avoidance, Danny slouched back down to the floor with a thump. With his head on the pillow, he resolutely stared back up at the ceiling where it was far safer than looking into Steve's overly kind and caring face.

"Danny? I want to help," Steve whispered.

 _Help_? Danny chuffed a queer sound deep in his throat. He'd had help after it had happened. Sure, he'd had plenty ... the very best his parents could afford. He'd had so much help that he'd felt foolish attending session after session with experts who hummed or took notes in that disturbing, quietly sage way as if they'd solved world hunger instead of having helped a ten year old boy conquer his demons.

Over time, he'd gotten better. He'd stopped wetting his bed; stopped having so many nightmares or half-waking terrors when he relived the worst parts of his ordeal. He eventually stopped waking at odd hours to walk his parents' house, disturbing - sometimes scaring - not only them, but his brother and sisters. After a lot of professional ... _help_ ... Danny had been deemed healed. To be fair, much of that help had indeed set some things better in his mind. He'd managed methods to cope successfully and even move on in a way.

Things were better. He was better; but not entirely perfect. Because even to that very day, not only would he steer clear of anything which reeked of a small space, certain sour smells might still set those bad memories off without clear warning.

Old musty smells were the worst. Rotted vegetables or fruit; refuse of any kind really. Definitely the pungent scents of sickly mold or mildew … like what he'd been exposed to earlier that day. That damnable old boat of all things, its hull rotted through. That had all been okay until he'd boarded the barely floating old shell. Below decks, the space was dark, small and it … stunk to high heaven of wet mold, things rotted.

Weeks worth of decomposition.

_It had smelled like death. It had smelled like ... the junkyard._

"Danny?" Steve prodded gently as Danny's eyes lost focus. "Talk to me ... tell me what happened." Steve had moved closer to sit next to Danny and he had completely missed it. Steve leaned against the cabinets now, his left knee just touching the pillow so he could look down into Danny's face.

"What was the ... nightmare about," Steve pushed harder. "Tell me what you remember."

"I don't remember ... it was a bad dream. Just a bad dream," Danny objected in knee-jerk fashion, but Steve shook his head, resolutely disbelieving of that statement.

"Nice try," Steve sighed loudly, as he stretched his legs long, crossing them at the ankle. "We have all night, Danno. Tell me what you remember."

Frowning as he got distracted away from the bland of the ceiling, Danny merely closed his eyes. It was a simple request. One that he could answer - because Steve was right - he _did_ remember; perhaps too much, in fact. And yet Danny hesitated, wondering if he should just continue to beg Steve off. However, in the end, he didn't.

"Fine, what I remember then," Danny muttered under protest because it sure sounded as if Steve had clearly seen quite enough by that point. Why did he really have to say anything to add to it? Besides, talking about what had happened ... _really_ talking wasn't something he'd wanted to do ever again. It was over ... done with. He'd been a kid at the time, so what did it matter now?

"I was ten," Danny finally stated after a long round of challenging silence. He made a disgruntled face and shrugged noncommittally. "I was ten years old when it happened ... and it really wasn't so much of a big deal."

He kept his eyes closed as a shiver ran the length of his spine though because those feelings that he'd just dreamt about hadn't faded so far after all. What he'd just spouted was a complete lie, too: it _had_ been a big deal and definitely still was a very big deal. Surprised that Steve didn't immediately argue those facts back, Danny felt an old tension creep into his muscles. _Hell_ , he could do this ... he'd told it so many times before.

So, Danny opened his mouth to continue, the first words of his story on the very tip of his tongue. _"Yeah, I was ten years old ... so what. It happened in a junkyard in Newark ... and would you believe that it doesn't even exist anymore? It's all high rise condos ... expensive ones."_

But those words - the deflection - and the cocky tone on which they were almost always delivered upon - never actually spilled out over his lips. Not this time. The aura of the night terror was far too new; too strong. This was no doctor's appointment where he'd talk about his bad dreams as a kid. Bad dreams that had taken place hours and sometimes days prior; things which might have become so old and stale, his younger self might only have recalled a snippet or two. By the time he'd see his therapist, everything he related oftentimes felt as if it had happened to someone else entirely. The emotion was gone. The _fear_ that might have been conjured was always _gone_.

Sitting there now with Steve was different though ... those feelings were fresh and percolating right there as if he could touch them if he dared look.

"So ... you were ten years old?" Steve repeated as way of encouragement.

"Yeah, so I, I ... uh, was ten," Danny started over, opening his eyes to look up at Steve, upside down as he was while he sat next to him. The next sentences would be easy ... _the junkyard had been plowed under years ago. Those high-end condos ... but Danny was starting to lose the plot._

"And?" Steve prompted patiently, worsening Danny's train of thought and affecting that well-worn, rehearsed mantra. His earnest, worried expression ... uncharacteristically ... tender, further derailed anything which Danny thought he might want to say.

"Danny ... you were ten? Just ten years old?"

Danny stared upwards his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He knew what he wanted to say but nothing came out. That thick, oppressive terror came back to grab his heart with a vengeance and Danny suddenly choked back what alarmingly almost sounded like a sob.

"This is stupid ... just ... so _stupid_ ," Danny insisted just one last time before something inside him had other ideas. Unable to stop the plunge, Danny tumbled into the past and straight down that bottomless pit of a rabbit hole. _He was ten again._ He _saw_ the junkyard and then literally _felt_ the hatred aimed his way by that junkyard man who eventually had a real name … a real police record. A truly evil man who was now dead, but still holding a bounty over Danny's head. "H-he wanted to kill me. It was … _awful_ ... I didn't do anything wrong ... and he tried to kill me," he rasped out tightly, suddenly feeling as if Steve's very kitchen was closing in on him. " _Honest to God_ ... meant to kill me. I ... I made a mistake and … h-he … there was this old gutted out refrigerator... he chased me ... and..."

Danny was talking fast now, much too fast. His tone was raw with emotion and he was skipping over words in his haste, bumbling over others. He tried to smile at his own expense and lost it big time when Steve merely gave him an encouraging nod and reassuring smile.

"You're okay ... it's okay," Steve muttered softly. "Slow down ... _breathe_."

"H-he, ..." Danny stuttered badly, stopping to heave in a great lungful of air. Emotions were churning at an all time high and his voice quavered as he closed his eyes to settle his nerves in a vain attempt to continue.

"Q-Quigley … Richard Quigley."

Danny had never uttered the junkyard man's name to anyone before and nearly choked on it now as he said it aloud. His parents had tried to protect him from the media, the truth behind the junkyard man's existence. And at the time, the younger version of himself hadn't really wanted to know a single thing about it. He didn't care to know the man's name or what had happened to him beyond the fact that he'd been imprisoned for life.

But later on, when he was much older, the ghost had visited him. Suddenly, the older Danny _had_ wanted to know. He _had_ to know more about the man who'd tried to kill him with such glee.

Maybe that need was part of why he'd become a cop ... maybe not. To that very day though, Danny had never admitted to anyone that he'd even learned the junkyard man's real identity. He'd never told a single soul that as soon as he was capable of getting his fingers on those old police records, he'd looked up his own archived case file and read it cover to cover.

He'd read about himself. Seen the pictures of the crime scene: _his crime scene where he'd been the victim_. Where he'd almost died, frightened and alone. Then tucked away in that small plastic evidence bag, he'd even touched the broken remains of his old, ancient pocketknife. He'd seen it all. Revisited it all. And then he'd read about Richard Quigley, the man. Committed the other victims to memory. Danny had been wholly obsessed even after Quigley had died in prison ... elderly and riddled by cancer.

Truth be told: Danny never should have looked. He'd done himself no favors. The knowledge ... the reams of documents ... the photographs ... none of it had helped resolve a blessed thing for him. If anything, it had continually taken on a life of its own because one, Richard Quigley, had truly been a very dangerous criminal. The truth ... not only hurt, it was terrifying.

"He …. _God_ ... he intentionally locked me in that thing .. trapped me on purpose while he _laughed_ ," Danny stammered on, flinching when Steve's hand fell sympathetically to his shoulder. Quigley was dead now and still, he was very much alive and part of Danny's psyche. It didn't make sense and it certainly wasn't fair, but to Danny, the junkyard man and his nasty dog still had a perverse grip on him.

"You're okay," Steve whispered soothingly. "You can tell me anything, Danno … you can ... and you _know_ that. Keep going."

Danny's lip suddenly trembled and he squeezed his eyes closed before inhaling another deep breath. He was on the verge of breaking down. He knew it and Steve knew it, too. Danny had help, but no one had truly reassured him ... been there for _him_ ... he'd never felt wholly satisfied ... and there was just so much he could share with either of his parents. Driven by an illogical sense of guilt, he didn't want to bring his issues down on them ... cause _them_ any more grief. Admit to them that the money they were spending on therapy wasn't the magical cure-all they'd so desperately expected it to be.

"Talk to me ... please," Steve whispered again. His voice was soft, yet his tone demanding and Danny was forced to keep looking into his eyes where he found nothing but a sincere desire to listen. "Let me try to help you ... I want to try, Danno, but I need to know what really happened."

Stubborn to the end, Danny's mouth flapped open to spew forth parts of that old, learned story. He'd done that so many times in the past; he could manipulate the worst therapy session to his advantage. Danny knew _the story_ by rote. He knew the ins and outs of it And just maybe then, that was the problem - it had all become a kind of story.

_Danny's story.._

_Danny's episode._

_Danny's ordeal. His ... trauma._

The secret in the closet which no one ever really truly wanted to talk about because maybe not talking about it might make it be less than it was … make it go away, as if it had never really happened. And for the longest time, Danny had been happy believing that. Over time, he'd learned how to play his own game of sorts. He thought that he'd learned how to handily manage the psychologists and his teachers; his parents. Frankly, even himself.

"Danny," Steve gripped his shoulder hard, yet warmly and soothingly. "Tell me about Richard Quigley."

Eyes beginning to brim with tears, Danny nodded in agreement as he haltingly began to share an unedited truth. Opting to start at the very beginning.

"I was ten and took a dare … simple really. Take the #10 bus at 3:45 in the afternoon, out to the west side and sneak into this old junkyard ... get past the crazy old man ... his old mangy mutt. Do that and then steal a license plate to prove it all. But that plate had to be one nailed to the outside of the office," Danny managed to say without too much trouble. Seconds later though, his eyes became distant. Danny's voice began to quaver and by the time he finished speaking, it was nearly gone.

"It had to be a plate from the office because that old building was in the middle of the junkyard. It was the hardest point to get to and so, the biggest deal. _B-but_ ... the owner ... he had this reputation ... and it turns out ... it was pretty damned true. Worse even. _A-and_ Mattie ... he was such a pain in the ass, you know? Six years old ... had to be in my back pocket. So to shut him up ... I let him come along. I took him with me ... and _th-then_ ... we got caught," Danny pushed out brokenly.

" _A-and_ ... yeah, I got caught."

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	5. Chapter 5

 

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Newark, New Jersey. Time Stamp: Late October: 25 years earlier.** _

Fear of not being able to breathe prompted Danny to move and he unstuck himself from his fetal position just enough to pull himself up the few inches he needed to wedge his forehead against the inside lip of the door. With just a subtle tilt of his head, he was able to line up his nose and mouth where he greedily sucked in fresher air. It was only just enough and he had to work at it. Plus, needing to do that - hold his head 'just so' and think about just breathing - made his plight feel so much worse.

Except for making sure he kept his face pressed against the tiny opening, and for his uncontrollable bouts of shivering, Danny wasn't moving too much though. His muscles were cramped and stiff, while his fingers barely flexed within the folds of his sweatshirt. Inside his sneakers, his toes simultaneously burned and then seemed completely deadened. As the cold temperature seeped into the old refrigerator from all angles, it sought him out and sucked the heat from his body. It sapped his energy, attacked him with an unrelenting vengeance and made him want to sleep.

As time trod on and the temperature fell, Danny drifted deeper and deeper into longer periods of quietude. He alternated between dozing and just rousing enough to remember to reposition his head to ensure he could breathe. He knew it was wrong ... he _knew_ it was dangerous and that he shouldn't allow himself to fall asleep. Nonetheless, he was shutting down. He was beginning to feel peaceful, less cold and only a small part of his brain existed now which knew that he should be on guard and not give up hope. But that part was growing smaller with every passing minute and he was losing ground to that tug of sleep more and more deeply. He had to force himself away from the pull by shifting his head just a bit to make sure that his nose and mouth were lined up with the largest portion of the jagged break. Mouth open, lips pursed and trembling, Danny worked to sucked in a steady lungful of air and then pushed it out ... over and over again ... fighting hard to concentrate on simply making that his job.

But even as he fought for himself, his fears had magnified about his brother.

_Mattie hadn't made it._

Danny was sure of that now. He'd been there far too long; no help had come and Mattie would have told. It was late at night; probably well after what would have been Danny's own normal bedtime.

_Mattie hadn't told because ... the junkyard man had killed him._

Distress made Danny turn his head away from the hole to rest his forehead on his forearm; he bit back an exhausted sob while he rubbed his damp eyes into his sweatshirt sleeve, almost too tired to really cry anymore.

_Mattie ... it was all Danny's fault._

Mired in his misery, Danny was beginning to decide that it might be easier to just let it all go ... to just ... _sleep_. Instead, he obeyed that tired inner voice which continually argued with his doubts. Moaning softly, Danny lifted his head back up and forced his forehead back to that spot on the door's rim where he could feel the steady flow of fresher air. If he didn't do that - if he _forgot_ to keep himself wedged up against that small opening - if he decided not to care - Danny was sure that he'd suffocate well before freezing to death.

But besides his distress over his baby brother, Danny was truly tired, so very tired and too many factors were working against him. Every few minutes, his thoughts would stray again and he forgot about breathing. Think too hard about Mattie. Fearfully wonder if the junkyard man was really right outside ... just a few feet away ... watching and waiting for him to die. Danny would get distracted and his mind would wander down terrible, divergent paths.

"Mattie," Danny murmured as he let his head slip down to pillow his cheek onto his forearm, a lone tear left to trace down his cold, pallid cheek. He stayed like that, unmoving for the next ten minutes until his breathing slowed so much, that the basic need to find oxygen juddered him awake from an unexpected, lengthening doze. Eyes wide in the dark, as his lungs strained and his chest burned, Danny lurched forwards, his head heavy and ungainly on his neck. Misjudging where he was, Danny knocked his temple _hard_ into the metal corner and winced, tears springing to his eyes as he sought that magical opening to wheeze in a thread of air in ... then out ... then in ... over and over again.

_"D'nny!"_

_"Hey ... D'nny! Wh're are ... c'n you h'r me?!"_

He literally sputtered as faint sounds interrupted his concentration. So startled by the advent of new noise, Danny literally sputtered to a stop. He kept his forehead pressed tightly against the frame of the door though and continued to breathe ... but much slower, more quietly ... and decidedly more controlled so that he could also ... listen.

Had he really heard all of that? He wasn't sure ... the sounds were faint. So very ... distant ... they could have been anything at all ...including his mind playing nasty tricks on him. Hallucinations. But then he heard something else.

_Shrill. Intermittent squawks ... whistles. Rhythmic, piercing sounds which were tumbling over each other._

Danny lay there, confused and uncertain. His brain refused at first to provide him with a reason for what he was hearing ... never mind, the why of it. But finally something triggered and his eyes widened in the dark.

 _Sirens. People ... police._ He was hearing the sounds of ... _police cars._ Maybe even emergency vehicles.

 _"D-dad?"_ He hoarsely rasped out. _"D-dad?"_

He paused, still unsure, listening hard, his thoughts in turmoil until he quite clearly heard one complete sentence. Called out loudly _for_ _him_ , the voice was decidedly male ... strident ... demanding and Danny felt a sob welling deeply inside his chest.

_"Danny ... are you here?! Danny ... can you answer me?"_

_"D-dad...,_ " Danny rasped out hoarsely. "Hey ... Dad... here ... please. _Here_."

_"Danny!"_

_"Can you hear us? Danny! Danny Williams!"_

"H-help ...Dad ... Dad ... _please_ .. ," Danny tried to call out for his father, but his voice failed him. Ruined from his earlier attempts, destroyed by the cold and taken from him by lack of oxygen, he could barely make a sound larger than a whisper. He whimpered, desolate and confused ... terrified that his father wouldn't really hear him, until he felt a vibration through the door of the refrigerator. There was a stirring outside and two fingers reached in through that gap and Danny startled as warm skin touched his chin, then skittered over his lips.

 _"Whoa! Hey ... hey ... hey! Danny?"_ Then, the gentle touch of those fingers was gone and his father's voice faded for a second. Leaving Danny briefly to call out orders and make demands. _"... I need help, people … now, now now!"_

The fingers were back an instant later to caress his chin and the side of one cheek. Danny moaned, desperate now to get out. He missed practically everything else then. Because, even though reassurances were being constantly shared with him through that small hole, when his dad's fingers disappeared again and his metal prison rocked once and then twice, Danny dropped his head to his forearm and whimpered in fear. The motion was unexpected and frightening. The rusted-out hull of metal creaked and groaned, resentful once again of being manhandled and moved out of a resting place. The noise which the old door made as it was forcibly yanked open by multiple sets of hands drowned everything else out and Danny was sobbing quietly even when a rush of bitterly cold fresh air swept across his entire body.

"Danny? We're lifting this just enough to get you out. My name is Mike and I'm going to get you out now. Can you tell me if you're hurt? Danny ... are you hurt ... can you look at me?"

"D-dad?" He whispered brokenly when he felt a firm, anchoring tug on the front of his sweatshirt. A large shape was suddenly looming in front of him, but Danny couldn't really see the man's features because of the way he was backlit by flashlights and battery-powered, high wattage lanterns. He was tugged forward gently again, the man's fist evidently buried sturdily in the material of Danny's sweatshirt as an arm was gently slid under his knees to lift him up and out.

"Hey-a, Tiger ... my name's Mike. I bet you're ready to go home, huh?"

"D'dad?" Danny insisted, missing the man's worried frown entirely. " _D'dad?_ Mattie ... M-Mattie ... he's d-dead."

"Guys, he's really confused ... get those medics over here ... lead them in; we're going to need blankets ... and a stretcher. Eddie, _sit down_ and I'll pass him to you," the man said to someone else over his shoulder. Danny blinked, his confusion knowing no bounds as he half-listened and then was finally able to see the man's face more clearly now that he was in the light.

"D'dad?" Danny whispered into Mike's stoic face again despite one part of his brain knowing full well that this man wasn't his father. But he was stuck on rewind now and refusing to let it go even as his eyes welled with tears and Mike stood to his full height, clutching Danny gently to his chest.

"No, Danny, I'm _Mike_ ... but your dad's right here, buddy ... hold on, okay?" Mike said as he gently transferred Danny to another pair of waiting arms. "Eddie ... wrap him up in that blanket. Then keep him still and quiet. Don't jostle him ... you know the drill. Easy ... let the medics come to us; but his breathing is better already. We found him. Just talk to him."

Overwhelmed and still not understanding, Danny closed his eyes as he was settled into a warm lap and swaddled in a blanket. He was shivering uncontrollably and entirely confused by what was going on around him. As he was cared for, Danny felt a second blanket being tucked around his body, even a portion of the warm material partly tweaked to fold just right to protect his face from the cold night-time breeze. Feather-light fingertips then ran comforting circles over his forehead, caressed his lips and then stroked his cheek.

The touches were soft and soothing and Danny sighed, his lips mouthing 'dad' weakly. But then, there was a subtle lull in the activity, something which seemed almost dangerous, and Danny felt rather than truly heard a hoarsely whispered threat. He felt the import of those angry words as they rumbled through the blankets and into his shiver-wracked body; words which he didn't understand at all.

"I'm going to kill that bastard," that familiar voice whispered hoarsely, just near Danny's ear. "Mike ... I swear to _God_...I'm going to kill him."

"Eddie? Later, okay?" That first man's voice intoned from above Danny's head and Danny forced his eyes back open. "Listen to me ... tell him Matt's okay ... all right? He needs to know that. Talk to him, Eddie."

Through partially-lidded eyes, Danny's gaze skittered around until it settled lazily on the face of the man now holding him. The man smiled and then leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

"We've been looking for you everywhere," Danny's father said as he continued to carefully run his fingers over Danny's face. Though his tone was calm, his father's big hands were shaking as much as Danny's body as he ghosted the softest of touches over Danny's cheek.

" _D-Dad ._.. Mattie?" Danny wheezed out. " _M-Mattie?_ "

"He got a little lost, but he's fine," Danny's father shushed and cosseted him. "He's at home ... with your mom. Safe and sound ... now it's your turn. Danny. I'm here ... you're safe now, too. I'm here."

Danny felt a gentle kiss to his forehead ... another to his nose. "Dad?" He whispered plaintively as his father cupped his cheek, his fingers gently falling to Danny's neck where their warmth soothed his ice-cold skin.

"Hang on for me, Danny," his father encouraged him quietly. "I'm here ... you're okay. Things are going to be okay, now."

Cocooned within the warmth of the blankets, Danny was clasped tightly to his father's chest, the strength of that safety so familiar and comforting. And as that strong voice resonated through Danny's body, Danny turned his face into his father's shoulder and closed his eyes.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	6. Chapter 6

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Honolulu, Hawaii. Time Stamp: Late October. Current Day** _

Steve dragged both of his hands over his face, feeling sick to his stomach. Sure, he'd wanted to know … he needed to _know_ and yet, what he'd imagined was nothing at all like this truth. Danny had related what he could remember with a weird perspective - a child's perspective retold in an adult voice. He'd remembered an incredible amount of detail. And frankly, it was beyond disturbing on any number of levels.

Speechless, Steve glanced down towards his partner. Danny had stopped talking, rolled onto his side, his arm under the pillow. Eyes closed, he looked as if he'd fallen asleep again. But Steve knew better and he swallowed hard. Danny had momentarily shut down; turned himself off.

Sarcasm or silence. Either could be Danny's coping mechanism and this time, he'd chosen silence. Steve understood it, too. Because what Danny remembered was nothing short of horrifying and it was a damned miracle that his friend had been found at all.

As for this Richard Quigley? Steve was still somewhat in the dark. Danny had taken a deep breath with a need to start at the beginning. Steve hadn't dared interrupt since he'd been grateful about that; his friend would get to Quigley all in due time. But as Danny related what he could remember, Steve began coupling things together. Quigley had wanted a little boy to die. He'd taken quick advantage of a frightening situation ... and with a great deal of pleasure in trapping and then tormenting a ten year old child. It was mind-boggling really. Steve shook his head, his understanding of Danny's phobia now combined with so many of his own roiling emotions. A little boy had been pursued by a mad man and then intentionally setup to die? It was unfathomable ... incomprehensible, really.

The man wasn't a pedophile, but at minimum he was a psychopath. Absolutely a monster.

When Danny shifted his legs under the blanket, Steve gave an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. This was a difficult conversation but Steve sensed it might be his only opportunity to know the entire truth of things.

"Hey?" Steve asked softly. "Amber alert - or _something_ \- must have been set off at some point …. it sounds like they sent half the city out looking for you, buddy. Your parents must have gone crazy with worry and your dad was well known - between the Fire and Police Departments, he had contacts and some clout. So why … _why_ did it take so long?"

Steve more felt than heard Danny's partly amused snort and his own eyebrows raised almost comically in response. "What?" He pressed on.

"Have you ever dealt with a six year old, Steven?" Danny asked, slightly sarcastic, knowing full well that Steve hadn't. " _Mattie_ ... Mattie is what took so long and not because I'd threatened him, but because he got stupid lost. He was only six years old and didn't know how to get back to a main cross street, let alone find a phone."

"How much time did he lose?" Steve managed to ask.

"About an hour ... maybe more. Probably more," Danny replied. "But he did get lucky ... he bumped into Tyrone Lewis, a 16 year old kid coming back from playing basketball. And for whatever reason, his mother was with him. Vera. From what I found out later, Vera was the sweetest woman alive and Matt was a snot-nosed mess. He could barely remember _our_ last name, let alone our telephone number. And can you just imagine how many _Williams_ are in the damned phone book, Steven? But anyway ... Matt was a fish out of water in that part of town and damned lucky to run into Tyrone and Vera. Tyrone picked him up and then he and his mother literally carried him, bawling, to the closest precinct. Then the two of them sat with Matt until everyone could figure out who he was ... where he belonged ... and then ... sort out what was going on."

"So …," Steve inhaled the word before exhaling a long, whistled breath. He was still confused though. "More time lost ... "

Danny snorted under his breath again but then shared something wholly unexpected.

"He'd never left the property," Danny murmured. His eyes were still closed, brow furrowed in deep distress, he paused and Steve waited. "Quigley. He stayed there the entire time. He lived in this tiny, beat to shit RV camper on the opposite side of the junkyard. When the cops got there, he was playing poker with a couple of his buddies; like nothing had ever happened. Nothing at all."

" _Jesus_ , Danny ... he _stayed_ there?" Without thinking, Steve drilled his fingers into Danny's shoulder where he'd been resting his hand. But that new bit of information wasn't computing inside his head. The man had _stayed there_ ... hanging out ... probably having a few drinks along the way ... laughing and joking as if _nothing_ was wrong?

"Almost six hours," Danny continued while he reached up to unlatch Steve's overly tight grip from his shoulder. He patted Steve's hand almost condescendingly and chuffed what sounded like another amused sound under his breath, but even that sound was watery. Danny's fingers were damp ... shaking. "It was almost too long. Late October nights are damned cold in Jersey, Steve." Then Danny heaved in a deep hitching breath, his exhale long and just as tremulous.

"Hey? Are you still okay?" Steve asked softly, worried that Danny would stop talking and yet completely understanding if he needed to. In response, Steve felt Danny shrug under his hand, saying nothing more as they both fought to get thoughts and emotions back under guard. Steve was willing to call it quits until Danny took another deep breath, his voice low.

"Six hours," Danny repeated after a moment. "I was trapped in that thing for just shy of six hours. The temperatures had fallen to twenty-eight degrees by the time they found me and I was already suffering from the onset of hypothermia. And I was so … scared … so damned _scared_ because I was alone and I couldn't breathe right … and no one had come for me. It was so dark … and I was _hurting so much_ … I didn't think Mattie was alive. I didn't think anyone was coming for me."

Steve shook his head as he tried to imagine what Danny was saying. It was incomprehensible and yet ... it surely had happened. "Your father ... he was with the units wasn't he?"

"He's a Williams, isn't he? There was no way in hell that he was going to stay behind," Danny chuckled this time. A good sound. Something more proud and Steve managed a small smile. "Once my parents got to the precinct and Mattie calmed down enough to tell everyone roughly what had happened ... the Newark PD filled in all the gaps; they pieced the story together because they knew who Mattie meant."

"He had a reputation. Richard Quigley ... he was being watched, " Steve ground out, surprised when Danny interrupted him. His tone had changed in a flash; back to something ominous and fearful.

"On the street, all us kids thought he was some kind of big joke. That crazy guy …. the old creep in the junkyard … loner, hermit. But it was all mired in some sick, sick truth," Danny said as he rubbed his face into his arm. "But it was so much worse than that. He wanted me to die. He …. he purposefully left me to die. Richard Quigley wasn't just a sick man ... he was insane."

"Your dad?" Steve asked gently, trying to prod his friend back to where he'd diverted himself. "What happened when they all got to the junkyard and confronted Quigley?"

"I heard later that Quigley was nonchalant, lounging around with his feet up. Not a care in the world when the units arrived," Danny said. "I heard he just sat there inside his old, warm camper, smoking cigars and drinking, calm as could be ... until he'd had enough. A few minutes in and the reports say that something seemed to click in the guy ... this switch flipped and he became _unhinged_. He tried to kick them all off his property - demanded a search warrant. When Quigley was informed that a warrant wasn't going to be necessary because they had due cause to believe that I was there ... and besides, based upon my age and the bitter weather alone ... that it was a valid emergency situation ... all hell broke loose."

Steve was hanging on every word, tense and on edge even if Danny was right there that minute ... safe and sound in his own kitchen. He heaved in a shuddering breath of his own as Danny continued on.

"It became a brawl of sorts ... it spilled outside into the yard with Quigley and his two card playing friends," Danny recounted. His eyes were closed and he was working hard at staying calm once more. There was a tinge of fear in his voice and he was definitely growing more upset. Still, he forged on.

"He tried to set his dog on them. More units were called in ... some of my dad's Fire Department crew had heard and shown up at some point, too. It was utter chaos. But even cuffed and collared, Quigley wouldn't talk ... instead ... he laughed. He _laughed_ , Steve."

"Your dad wanted to kill him," Steve muttered in full understanding and even agreement of that sentiment. "He had every right, too."

"Everybody _wanted_ to kill him," Danny said, his tone wry. "But, yeah, my dad wanted to kill him right then and there. His friend, Mike, had to hold him back more than once. Everyone knew he'd done something to me and yet, he just wouldn't say a single, damned word. He just sat there on the ground ... cuffed and bleeding ... and _laughing_. And looking for me in that dump of a place ... was like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Danny, _God_. I'm so … I'm really _sorry_ you had to go through that, buddy." And Steve was, even if it was a ludicrous thing to say. He _was_ damned sorry and completely unable to find the right thing to say. In fact, there wasn't a single thing he could say by that point either.

"S'okay," Danny murmured softly, his voice growing quiet and ever so distant. "Missed Halloween that year though. Damn shame. Love Halloween. Was supposed to be Batman … not that I had wanted him to tag along at the time - at least I didn't want him to before all this happened - but Mattie was going to be Robin. Missed it …miss him now, too, Steve."

The admission was so unexpectedly off the cuff and so … _Danny_ … Steve found himself smiling through tears. One-handed, he pawed at his face, not too surprised to find himself shaking too ... just a bit. Danny's story was nothing short of tragic.

"Batman and Robin, _huh_? Works for me, Danno," Steve said with a throaty, emotion-laden cough as he gently squeezed Danny's shoulder, his smile growing at least when Danny chuffed a quiet affirmation.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	7. Chapter 7

 

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

_**Newark, New Jersey. Time Stamp: Late October: 25 years earlier.** _

"D-Dad? _D-Daddy?"_ Eighteen hours later and still hospitalized as a precaution, Danny was decidedly more coherent and his temperature more towards a happier normal, but absolutely exhausted. His bruised thumb strayed upwards to find his mouth again and he held it there, clenched loosely between his teeth, his tongue beginning to swirl against the damaged skin.

"Sssshhh … _shhh_ , I'm right here," his father soothed. The soft rumble of his voice resonated through Danny's ear and into the side of his head. "Don't do that ….you're okay … I'm here. Try to go to sleep." A second later, he was gently pulling at Danny's fingers, being mindful of the swelling and bruises, insistent about forcing Danny's thumb away from his mouth. A thin trail of spittle followed and his father wiped it from his chin with his fingers.

"Here little man. Take this."

Danny blinked as a stuffed animal was wedged into his arms. His father was giving him the same teddy bear a policeman had given him just before the ambulance had closed its rear doors. He didn't remember it all though. Forgetting his want to suck this thumb, Danny blindly accepted the plush, honey-colored toy, using his wrists and forearms to hug it close at the same time he melted back into his father's chest.

They were sitting together in the big hospital recliner in Danny's room. Much of the earlier chaos in the emergency room was now all but forgotten. The lights, the sounds, the too many people running around him. He'd been overwhelmed and cried when his father disappeared for a few minutes not understanding that the elder Williams needed some time to compose himself. Not at all understanding that his father had held it together in the ambulance for him alone - and only just barely at that. With Danny in good hands, his father had taken the chance to step out of the emergency room, inanely hoping that his son wouldn't miss him that fast. He'd seen Danny's ripped and torn fingers in the ambulance once Danny's hands had been gently removed from the confines of the material. He'd seen the shallow knife wound, not understanding how it had happened ... he'd seen the dirt, blood and swollen fingers and had barely been able to stay calm. So when they'd arrived at the hospital's emergency room bay, Eddie Williams had taken a chance because he hadn't wanted Danny to see just how badly upset he was ... nor, the rage which had settled so deeply inside him. But even those few precious minutes had been tough on his son. Danny had been overwhelmed, distraught, and Eddie wouldn't leave him again. Not for anyone or anything, including himself.

"Go to sleep, Danny," his father now whispered into his ear. "That nice nurse gave you some medicine so you can sleep ... for your headache and so your hands won't hurt so much."

Currently tucked into his father's arms and wrapped in a white hospital-issued blanket, they were mostly alone and any noises emanating in from the corridor were more common and predictable. Danny had been passively warmed, slowly and carefully in a very warm room, using warm blankets and warmed oxygen. Warmed intravenous fluids had aided his recovery, but Danny still had a mild headache, intermittent muscular twitches, and both of his hands were indeed very sore. He'd hardly managed to eat more than a few sips of a hot broth and was beyond exhausted. But still, Danny refused to go to sleep. He fought the slight sedation which had been administered. He argued his body's need to rest. Every so often his lids would dip closed and he'd force them right back open …. away from the dark and the stirrings of unfair dreams. _Away_ from the nothingness of that tiny black, airless space which brought with it a big nasty dog and a man, even meaner than that.

As if on some unseen cue, tears gathered again and Danny turned his face to hide his eyes in the breadth of his father's chest. He tried to rub the burn and tears into the plaid material of his father's shirt, taking some comfort in the tactile feel. His father was warm, solid and he'd vowed not to leave Danny's side. Ever.

" _Shhh_ ," his father hummed again, a gentle bounce offered as if he were a baby needing to be rocked. "Your mom's home with Matt and everything's okay. He's okay ... you're okay, Danny. Promise. Can you try to get some sleep for me, _huh_? I'm not going anywhere; you don't have to answer any more questions or see anyone you don't want to see."

Danny moaned softly inside his throat as that dark place snuck in for a moment. He'd been asked a few questions, first by a male police officer and then a few hours later, by a female officer. He hadn't been too much help to either of them. Danny knew those well-meaning questions were things that police officers needed to do; his dad had gently reminded him of that, too. They had to question witnesses in order to find the bad guy or keep the bad guy in jail. They were only there to help him and make sure that he was okay now. Nonetheless, Danny didn't want to answer those questions … he wanted to stay as far away from that place as he possibly could. His brain had switched off … maybe even permanently and only a few basic things were leaking through. Just a few snippets here and there from the nurses and doctors, but he was stubbornly being ignorant to those too. As if from a distance, Danny heard words about himself that he refused to listen to, let alone want to understand. Words like _hypothermia, trauma, post traumatic stress, shock._

In a way, he did know what that all meant, too - but just then, he simply didn't care. Not knowing what he really needed or wanted, Danny was good enough in just knowing his father was there with him. Still, there were ... moments. Sneakily bad moments where his over-taxed body would relax, but an uncomfortable doubt would toy with his mind.

"Dad?" For what seemed like no reason at all, Danny suddenly jolted in place while his swollen fingers spasmed around the toy. He whimpered as an achy pain flared from his fingers and into his wrists and his father shushed him, humming the sound softly in his throat.

As if on auto pilot, his father's big hand immediately tucked Danny's head more deeply into his chest. "Sleep, son. I'm here," his father murmured. More deep, sonorous rumbles thrummed through the side of Danny's head as his father talked nonsense to him. Calm and soothing, his father's fingers ran abstract circles over Danny's cheek, and then up into his hairline. Danny's half-lidded eyes dipped again, and his vision narrowed. His eyes were burned out sockets inside his head and still he fought the need to sleep. He fought hard even as the dark red and black of his father's shirt blended into a meaningless blur of color.

"Daddy?" He murmured forlornly as he struggled to stay awake, his fingers desperate as they buried themselves in the plush of the teddy bear.

"Close your eyes, Danny," his father urged him softly. "Go to sleep. I'll keep you safe wile you rest … you're safe here with me. I promise … I _promise_ , buddy."

As Danny focused on listening to his father's deep bass tone, those big strong fingers seemed to encase the entire side of his head, while at the same time, managing to continue their loving curve of those same soothing circles. He was warm. He was safe.

It took a few minutes longer, but finally … _finally_ … Danny lost his battle nestled in the circle of his father's arms.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	8. Chapter 8

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Honolulu, Hawaii. Time Stamp: Late October. Current Day** _

"The headline in the papers the next day was 6-Year Old Saves Brother, Danny chuffed tiredly through his nose. "Funny right? Mattie …. _Mattie_ came across as the big hero. But our family didn't talk about that or the other articles or reports on the news … none of it ever came up like that. So, I didn't know at the time - I had other things … other _problems_ for a helluva _longer_ time. I only knew that they'd arrested the junkyard man and that he was in prison because of the things he did to me. But the real truth was even bigger than me. I found out there was even more to that junkyard man. Things I didn't know about _then_ …. things no one told me _back then_ about Richard Quigley."

Steve nodded as he listened, his mind working a mile a minute. He didn't even really hear the storm or register the high winds; the thunder. The outside world barely existed at all. They were still on the kitchen floor, evidently camped out together for the foreseeable future and well, that was fine with him because, not only was he learning something new and important about his friend, it truly felt as if he was _helping_.

Danny was still laying on his side, stretched out long under the blanket. He still had his arm cocked under the pillow, eyes closed. However, his face had become much calmer than it had been before. The heavy lines had smoothed from his forehead and he was less stressed; his voice steadier. Steve thought he might actually be on the cusp of falling asleep, but Danny had snorted at that when Steve had asked, swearing that he could never actually sleep after having such a vivid night terror.

"So hey? Did you have to testify?" Steve dared to ask.

"Not directly," Danny said after a long pause. He shrugged as if it meant nothing, yet Steve could still feel that edge of nervousness under his hand. "I was competent enough I guess. But my parents and our lawyer intervened and the judge agreed after meeting with all of us. It was decided that I didn't have to see Quigley face-to-face ... I was allowed to testify by videotaped deposition. At the time, they had to explain to me who Richard Quigley even was though ... he never had a name to me, you know? But I sure had an all out panic attack when they showed me a picture of the man. Barely halfway in and I couldn't breathe right; my dad almost called it quits right then and there ... but I guess that honest reaction had value. I remember being absolutely petrified by just seeing a few photos; I remember making it through the questions ... and just wanting to _sleep_ after it was all over."

It was Steve's turn to snort under his breath. _Value_? He was angry though because he could see it happening ... he could understand that fear. He could see his friend as a little kid sitting in some chair ... maybe a small room in the court house ... and in front of a video camera. It had to be done. Steve was sure of that but for some reason he kept envisioning Danny small and alone in that room with nothing but a bunch of intimidating suits.

"You know a lot more about what happened that night, Danny, don't you? " Steve asked hesitantly. "What did you find out that was so much bigger than some maniac trying to torture and ... kill a ten year old kid?"

If Danny had been so protected during the trial, then other things didn't make enough sense - Danny's occasional odd statement about Quigley intimated something even worse - and Steve scowled as he picked himself down an interesting path; something which made more sense as he cobbled the words together. "Even afterwards ... they wouldn't have asked you any of that stuff. You wouldn't have heard or been exposed to any more information than what you'd experienced yourself. So ... so ... you looked him up, didn't you ... you read the reports."

"I was still in the Police Academy when I sweet-talked myself into Records ... I wanted to see everything," Danny confirmed rather proudly. He was smiling now too, but that heavy crease had instantly come back to his forehead. There was no doubt that Danny was pleased that Steve had figured that out so easily, but this much too personal investigation evidently had still been problematic and fraught with some kind of added trauma.

"I saw ... everything," Danny muttered more to himself, thoughtful and with a tinge of distress. "I read everything about Richard Quigley ... things I never had known."

"Why am I not surprised?" Steve had to grin because Danny pulling his own old case file made so much sense. He chuffed a half-pleased sound under his breath and gave Danny a heartfelt tap on the shoulder. "Of course you did. So ... what was in that file then that you didn't know?"

But Danny only barely gave a sketchy smile in return. He blinked a few times and then took a deep breath, clues enough for Steve. "What?" Steve gently pressed on.

"Just way too much, Steve. I read about myself first … me and Mattie. Our case … the hospital reports …. the fallout," Danny murmured quietly. "Then, I learned all about Richard Quigley, age fifty-six at the time. But Steve? Have you ever read something about yourself? Something ... so _personal_ ... and yet simultaneously, so far removed from it that it was ... _horrifying_ "

Danny's eyes stayed closed, the furrow in his brow deepening as he spoke. "I saw myself there again. But me as that ignorant, dumb kid. I saw _me_ right there in black and white … except for the photographs of the junkyard and ... and that damned _refrigerator_ which had been in living color ... I saw what had become a crime scene from every clinical angle. It wasn't there, but my _pocketknife_ had been bagged and tagged; referenced in the files."

He heaved in a staccato breath of air, the exhale sounding like a hiccup and making his shoulder shake under Steve's hand all over again. Danny's eyes had sprung back wide open, almost in fear, but his gaze was distant as he seemingly stared at the opposite wall in the kitchen.

"I wish I could have warned myself," Danny muttered under his breath. "I know it makes no sense at all ... but seeing all of that made me feel ... terrible for that kid who was both me and yet not me all at the same time. I just wish I could have gone back in time and done something because I know how trapped that kid felt ... how alone and scared. How that embarrassment for _wetting_ himself wouldn't even matter less than a day later ... because what would wind up being important in the bigger scheme of things was that his baby brother was okay ... his parents still loved him ... and he'd be okay, too, even if it took a damned long time."

"Ah, Danno," Steve whispered sadly. "I'm sorry, buddy."

"But the worst thing?" Danny replied softly, rolling over to look upside down into Steve's face. "Not only did I _live_ everything once and then relive it all over again when I opened that damned case file... but, then I got to see it from the outside ...looking in. I read the transcribed deposition ... and in those words, I saw how scared I'd been. It was bad enough inside that thing ... not being able to breathe and having it all close in around me. But ... I can't get my head wrapped around knowing that _Quigley_ saw it like that, too. He saw it ... knew it ... and then left a ten year old kid alone to _die_... on purpose."

Danny stared into Steve's face, his emotions once more plainly exposed as he argued almost to himself. He was rambling, talking fast and growing more upset with every passing second. "But really ... isn't that an over reaction? Because, I know it's not rational after all of this time, right? Why am I still scared? When I accessed the case file, in a way, I wasn't even reading about myself; it didn't feel like _me_ anymore. It happened a thousand years ago! And I can tell myself that being claustrophobic ... having these dreams or night terrors ... none of it is rational. And is it claustrophobia ... or am I afraid of something else?"

"You're not over reacting. Over- _thinking_ it maybe ... but not over-reacting," Steve said as his friend rubbed a shaky hand over his face. "I don't know what to say except the obvious: sometimes revisiting the scene of the crime doesn't help at all ... it just makes it all worse. And you were two entirely different ages, Danny. Why don't you cut yourself a break and give yourself a little bit of understanding instead of beating yourself up?"

Nonetheless, and though he fully stood behind what he just said, Steve hadn't considered something like Danny had just described at all. He'd never considered the differing perspectives ... or such an interpretation. And yet, even though he'd never personally experienced anything like this, Steve completely understood what Danny was saying. If anything, what Danny was describing was incredibly rational - especially for someone like Danny who tended to analyze everything twenty different ways to hell and back again. But he was worried for Danny - the incredible vivid experience - the knife he'd gone for in his kitchen - and he scowled as his friend seemed to fold in upon himself.

"Danno, are you okay?" Steve asked. "This ... what you told me ... I get how hard it is to talk about. I do ... so, are you all right? Do you want to stop ... maybe take a break or try to get some rest?"

"No. It's okay. I'm good ... I'm fine," Danny whispered, somewhat of a forced smile in the tone of his voice as he admitted his unease. "Damned thing still gets to me, you know? And besides, there's really no way that I can rest or even try to sleep after something like this ... sometimes it's just bad."

He snorted helplessly under his breath at that perceived stupidity and Steve's lips twitched, but he couldn't find that smile again. None of what his friend was saying was even remotely stupid ... it was downright terrifying.

"How could it _not affect you_ , Danno? For the first time in your life, you were savagely betrayed by an adult. And no matter how bad you as a kid might have _thought_ a person _could_ be ... you sure as hell never expected something like _this_. And no ... no, buddy. You're not over-reacting ... this had a big impact on your life ... this guy nearly killed you and a little kid should never be forced to cope with anything even remotely like this."

"Yeah, I guess you found out how great I can _cope_ sometimes, didn't you?" Danny snarked under his breath. He took a deep breath, trying to smile and completely failing as he stared into Steve's face, his expression one of absolute raw honesty.

"So … so … yeah. I looked and it was a terrible mistake. I managed to validate every single thing I experienced from the size of that damned old refrigerator ... to how bad Richard Quigley really was. I read the reports about a busted up and rusted out old _refrigerator_ which was the focal point of a crime scene. Who would have thought that, _huh_? And it was really even smaller than I remember it to be, Steve. When I was inside it, I couldn't even sit up since I had no clearance. I was stuck laying there on my side and it all closed in on me ... the _dark_ and the ... stench. But the thing was so thick and heavy … it _felt_ oppressive ... and the _door_ … then the void where it had been standing upright before Quigley shoved it over onto its side … the square of sunken dirt; the bottom of the thing was layered with leaves and muck because it had been there for so long before Quigley forced it over. I had my musty old memories combined with photographs which were in living color. Photographs I hadn't been shown before, written reports from other sources, affidavits, and descriptions of things which made me see things from another perspective. And, I didn't want to recognize it you know? But I did … I _did_ recognize it at the same time and thought about that poor, petrified kid ... the kid who was so sure he was going to die. I didn't know how a kid could even get inside that old refrigerator ... and yet a kid who had because that kid had been me. Really ... really ... _me_."

Steve bore his fingers into Danny's shoulder as he heard the second strangled breath of air. Danny was getting his points of view muddled between what he'd experienced and then, what he'd read in a file. Like he'd tried to explain to Steve, seeing it from the outside ... in ... held a point of horror. He thought Danny should certainly stop now; the discussion had become a one-sided purge of frenetic emotion and Danny was beginning to jump, not only between points of view, but also from one thing to another. Doing it so fast in fact, that Steve could barely follow him at all.

"Maybe ... we should pick this up later ... ," Steve started to say that very thing. That Danny should take a break ... get his thoughts back together. That they could talk again maybe later after a bite to eat because the weather was still so bad outside, but Danny wasn't about to be stopped at that point as he jumped again to another facet of the experience

"And my dad ... you know, Steve? He never yelled at me for what I did that day. Not once ... not _once_ did the reason for what I did ever come up other than when talking to the attorneys or the judge," Danny explained in a rush. "He never asked; I never volunteered. I never really understood why we didn't talk about it ourselves and I think that I wanted him to ... even though he never raised his hand to any of his kids, I wanted him to beat the crap out of me or at least ... yell. Something. Anything - tell me how stupid I was - tell me how disappointed he was in me. _Anything_! Instead ... my dad was the epitome of patience. He was ... gentle ... kind. Even understanding of what I needed at the time when I refused to let him out of my sight or insisted on sleeping with a damned teddy bear ... a _teddy bear_ , Steven! Part of me just didn't get it and yet, I craved the attention ... I needed my dad _there_ ... because I needed to know I was okay ... that we were all okay."

Steve winced as Danny's face twisted into a remembered confused sense of emotional pain from an experience that had so many complex layers, that it didn't ever seem to end. And though he was right about that profound magnitude, Steve was still surprised when Danny mumbled something so quiet, he almost missed it all.

"But I never should have looked ... because, there was more ... so, so much more ..."

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or any characters. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Notes: and here's the wrap up ... cheesy ending. ARGH! Cheese-cake ... serious cheese-cake warning.. apologies in advance. My thanks to each and every single person who left a review - and the Guests who I can't reply to directly. I know this wasn't exactly full of action or a whump-a-holic event. I really appreciate you all for taking the time to read it! And thanks to the exceptional beta - muse a&& kicker extraordinaire - Swifters.
> 
> And once again, a very happy belated birthday to Cargumentluv. I hope you enjoyed this little gift (and the extra bit of cheesy cake - LOL)!

 

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

_**Honolulu, Hawaii. Time Stamp: Late October. Current Day** _

"Thank you," Danny offered his thanks quietly. They were sitting side by side now. Still in the dimly lit kitchen, but shoulder to shoulder and up against the cabinets. Steve had insisted that Danny at least take a break to drink something ... and oddly, this time he'd agreed, opting for a simple glass of ice water. As he spoke though, Danny was staring at one spot on the floor, the water rippling in the glass he held as his hand trembled repeatedly.

"Thanks for what?" Steve asked as he watched Danny, his eyes riveted to his friend's hand and that vibrating glass of water. "I'm only listening ... and I pushed you to tell me. Maybe I pushed too hard, but I needed to know, Danny. So what the heck are you thanking me for now, buddy, _huh_?"

"Because, ..." and Danny inhaled a strangled breath, pausing only to take a sip of water, his hand shaking all the way up to his lips and then back down again. He tried to cover it up by resting his hand on his right knee, but it didn't work as planned and Steve watched as a few drops of water flew from the glass to soak into the material of Danny's worn jeans. " _Because_ ... I never told anyone that I'd gone through the case files. I never told anyone ... and I swear doing that and then not being able to confide in a single person ... it just made it impossible for me to deal with."

Danny laughed right then and there; his eyes shining, but with a certain sarcastic self-deprecation. "You sure as hell saw that tonight, didn't you."

"Danny, I'm going to say it again," Steve insisted, not wanting to hear the sarcasm in his friend's voice. "I get it ... I understand ... and I'm happy to do anything you want or need."

Steve watched as Danny nodded, his eyes melded to that one spot on his kitchen floor for the longest of times. He watched as Danny swallowed hard, before he simply shrugged and nodded again.

"So," Danny murmured. "That's what I mean, Steve. Right now ... for the first time I can remember, it feels really good to get all of this out and to tell someone who I trust. So, yeah, thank you. That's all. That's it ... that's all I have to say."

Steve raised an eyebrow at that admission. Not once since he'd known him, other than when Danny's ex-wife had tried to up and take their daughter back to the mainland had Danny ever spoken so frankly to him. He was touched ... even taken aback by his friend's rare show of trust.

"No one?" Steve asked softly. "Really? Not a soul, Danno?"

"Nope, no one. Just you ... now," Danny said matter-of-factly, one side of his mouth tilting upwards while he bumped meaningfully into Steve's shoulder as if solidifying the secret. It was better than having Danny stare blindly at one spot on his kitchen floor and Steve smiled back as Danny continued talking.

"Who could I tell if you think about it? Not either one of my parents and sure as hell not Mattie; not even when we'd gotten older. He'd been such a kid when it happened and he'd bounced back within a day as if nothing had happened; just a tiny blip on his radar and things were normal again. So even later on, I'm not sure he'd really have understood things. Not the way I would've needed or wanted him to, anyway."

"Rachel?" Steve asked, practically wincing as he mentioned Danny's ex-wife. "I mean ... you'd have to say something ... you couldn't just gloss over something like this?"

Danny snorted through his nose while shaking his head. He was staring at an interesting spot on his knee as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. His chest gave an odd little hitch and he shook his head again. "She was never meant to be a cop's wife," Danny muttered under his breath. "I tried to tell her all of it; I really did. But in the end? No, I told her ... _something_ ... but only just enough."

Steve's expression was sharp and nearly unforgiving. He drew his own conclusion and perhaps, unfairly. But he didn't think so and frankly, he didn't care. He'd actually _liked_ Rachel when first introduced to the woman. He wouldn't have been all that surprised had Danny and his ex reconciled at one point. But knowing what he knew now, being told that his friend couldn't completely confide in her was enough. Rachel Edwards, could have been enamored by the idea, but she had never been cut out to be a cop's wife.

"Fair enough," Steve replied in answer, refusing to add more to that curt statement. "I can see how you felt ... kind of alone; even if your dad was there all those other times."

"My dad," Danny chuffed out, turning his head to catch Steve's eye. "About my dad ... he confessed something to me after I graduated. He did his own kind of soul searching, too. Another Williams trait it seems ... needing mementos or proof of ... things ... _bad things_. My dad has my old pocketnife. He has it still bagged and in all of its tiny ruined pieces. He also kept all the old newspaper clippings about the incident ... it began with the one about Mattie and me from the day after," Danny shared in a monotone.

"Then he obsessed over every single thing he could find on Quigley from his trial and all the way through his incarceration. My father thinks he knows everything about Richard Quigley ... but even after he finally showed me his pile of clippings and admitted he'd kept my knife, I never told him I accessed the case files ... I couldn't do that. He knew a lot and still not everything. He hadn't physically gone to the trial or seen the real evidence; he'd only heard things third and fourht hand through the media. I didn't want him to see ... what I really saw. It didn't seem right and I know he'd want to see all of that, too, and if it ... damaged me that much? What would that have done to him?"

"I don't doubt that," Steve agreed gently. "What he followed through the news reports was probably enough. His only interest was making sure Quigley never saw the light of day; he wanted to know you were safe, Danny. You did the right thing."

"Yeah ... no," Danny said, slightly stumbling over his tongue. "He didn't need to see ... the actual files or the evidence. Because seeing those things - the coroner's reports - the pictures. No, ... it didn't help me. If anything, it made it all worse ... brought it back to life and made it so damned real. I didn't want to do that to my parents - to my dad."

"Like father like son?" Steve noted with a fond expression. "You both had your own sense of ... needing something out of this. But you're torturing yourself, Danno. Why?"

"Maybe ... I guess I am," Danny admitted dryly. "Today though … at the docks?" He shook his head slowly, his tone now rueful. "Just the smell inside that derelict of a boat … that's what did it … the _smell_."

"Musty, dank ... then the body. Of course," Steve murmured with some understanding since something this specific was hardly new to either of them. They'd been to so many crime scenes, Steve had lost count. Others worse than another; and this one? Not half as bad as some. Still, Steve was willing to give Danny some room without question.

"And quarters were tight, Danno. It _all_ makes sense … it does … I get it and I'm glad you told me."

There was another round of silence again. So long that Steve thought Danny had drifted back asleep - his chin on his chest as Steve sat next to him. Nearly serene despite his earlier claims to the contrary. But Danny hadn't fallen asleep; nor was he calm. Not by a long shot. And then Steve caught up to a slip Danny had just made and he frowned in absolute confusion.

"Wait ... What did you just say?" Steve breathed out. "What coroner's reports, Danny? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Richard Quigley," Danny cleared his throat before continuing. "Served life in prison once they piled up all the evidence against him. There were two bodies hidden in that junkyard; I was nearly the third. One was right in one of the burned out station wagons I'd run by when I was trying to hide from him. A fourteen year old runaway who'd been missing for six months."

" _Jesus_ , Danny," Steve murmured in surprise. This made sense now ... much more sense. "He was really a psychopath ... a murderer?"

"He was _really_ insane ... and you know what? I smelled it back then… the first body," Danny ground out though clenched teeth. "I didn't know what it was at the time … but now I do. That _smell_ of … a festering ... decomposing ... body."

"Danny?" If he hadn't been stunned before, Steve sure as hell was by that admission. "What do you mean … you _smelled_ it?"

"It … she …. " Danny said brokenly. "I never ... never told anyone this either, Steve! I can't tell my dad ... there's no one for me to tell! But after I read the case files, I knew I had smelled her. Fourteen year old Anne Mills… right there in the old car that I'd run past. I smelled her and I remember it like I'm talking about it this very minute. I had to cover my nose with my arm as I ran by that place and I _remember_ doing that as if it were yesterday. When they were looking for me that night, two of the Newark PD stumbled across the body. They, _uh_ ... they smelled it first just like I had. It was right there in the recorded statements."

"Oh my God, Danny," Steve breathed out, feeling nauseous just by the sheer incredible nature of the story.

"Then the second …. ?" Danny continued to recount what he knew from the files. "She ... she was a woman who'd taken much longer to identify. They found her body on the opposite side of the junkyard … under a pile of scrap metal. Her remains were … _old_ … practically nothing was left of her and it took _time_ to ID the body. But Quigley finally offered some clues about where he'd … taken her _from_ … and they were able to trace her back to a cold case file. One Dolores Stein. A local waitress who'd gone missing three - almost four - _years_ earlier."

"And then what he tried to do to you," Steve stated. "He really would have killed you … my _God_ , Danny. You were just a kid."

"Yeah," Danny closed his eyes, his chin dropping down to rest on his chest once more. "Then there was me … just a kid."

Steve frowned at the way his friend was now speaking. An odd uncomfortable feeling twisted his chest and he shook his head in disbelief. Until he realized that he might have done the very same thing he was considering now about his friend. Danny wouldn't have ... or _would_ he ... had he done it?

"Danny … you didn't go to see him? Tell me that you didn't do that, too!" Steve rasped out incredulously, his eyebrows raised in alarm and knowing the truth even as he asked the question. Of course Danny had ... _of course_. He'd done everything else ... this one final thing would practically have been a requirement on one long, terrible bucket list.

"Of course I did … I had to," Danny replied precisely spoken in tandem to the anguish of Steve's mental thoughts. "It took some doing since Quigley had been moved way the hell upstate to Attica; its a maximum security prison in New York. I took time off from work and pulled some massive favors - paid a few folks under the table - to just get through the front door. I didn't want to meet with him either, Steve. I just wanted to see what he looked like. So, I saw him from across the yard when he was in recess and he never saw me at all. I was there all of five minutes, but I just _had_ to see him, you know? But ... _but_ what was so bad was that I wanted him to look like a _nothing_. I wanted him to be something … smaller. I assumed he'd be smaller because I'd been such a little kid and at least ten years had gone by - maybe more. He wasn't though. Not one bit. If one thing was true inside my head, Richard Quigley was as big as I remembered him. Big and ... _mean_. He was feared on the cell block … _respected_ even. I saw him from a distance. I thought that was all I wanted or needed to do. He was nearing sixty-eight years old at the time …. and as big as a freaking _house_. Quigely was a bear of a man. Intimidating … a freaking Mack truck of a guy ... when they moved him in the system, he had no less than four armed guards dedicated to move him. Not even cancer seemed to make him any smaller."

Danny paused breathlessly, taking a moment to get his emotions back under control before he shrugged as if it no longer mattered. And yet it _did_ so, so much.

"He died one year before I came out here. Locked up where he deserved to be … locked up like the animal he was … and every day, I'm thankful that he's gone," Danny admitted. "Yet, he's still not entirely gone is he? I can't forget him ... or what he did to me ... and seeing the files about the murders; their pictures. Matching them to families ... and then, seeing _him_ alive and well ... all of that only made everything so much worse for me."

Danny gently tapped his head twice and shrugged, his eyes dark and brooding, an anger still brewing. "So maybe I'm the crazy one, _huh_?"

Steve winced at the unadulterated hatred he now heard in his partner's voice. This wasn't the normal Danny he'd grown to know. The one that would get mad at the drop of a hat, yet move on just as quickly. And the hatred ... the bitterness? This Danny was angry and still holding a long-seated grudge … one that stretched back twenty years. And in all honestly, Steve couldn't blame him. Not one bit. In fact, Steve felt a surge of open hostility against this now deceased man. The entire story was nothing short of mind-boggling.

"You were just a kid, Danno. You're not crazy ... or wrong," Steve noted gently. "You have every right to be angry ... you were betrayed and hurt ... and it _is_ a big deal."

"Yeah, okay," Danny muttered wryly. "So now you know."

Danny frowned as he wearily glanced over to look into Steve's face as if daring to judge him though he already knew Steve would never do that. In fact, Steve had already said as much to the contrary because he clearly understood. Still Danny felt obligated to qualify what had happened that night, including the larger fall-out of being claustrophobic. Of course, too, there had been the issue of the knife he'd taken ... the small cut on his hand.

"I'm claustrophobic. Small spots … tight spaces … freak me out, partner. Bad smells …. mildew and rot ... decay. He's there in all of that … Quigley is _there_ and watching me all the time even though he's long gone now. Him and his damned junkyard dog. And sometimes …. just _sometimes_ … if I'm rundown or something hits me just right …. _this_ happens," Danny quietly explained. "The knife? I don't know ... I think it's a part of that memory ... I think I'm trying to protect myself from Richard Quigley. But no matter what, I can get through it now … I always get through it every time and I've never hurt anyone. I'm mostly fine, Steve."

Steve grunted softly in appreciation of everything Danny had shared. He was glad to know … _proud_ that Danny had finally told _him_ the entire truth. _Happy_ to know Danny's most innermost thoughts, worries and fears even if those truths were so incredibly frightening and truly so very sad. But Danny's last spoken sentence was fraught with innuendo. _Mostly fine?_ Steve scowled at that. _Never hurt anyone?_ No matter how minor, Danny had hurt himself from a remembered fear. It was ... disturbing. And the bottom line was simple enough to Steve: Danny didn't have to get through anything alone ... or feel that things were _mostly_ _fine_ ... on his own. Ever.

"Yeah, I know and I get it. But, I want you to do me a favor," Steve said. He was still digesting everything; still flabbergasted by the sheer volume of Danny's incredible story. He relaxed the grip he'd maintained on Danny's knee to fling his arm over Danny's shoulders. He rocked into him in that friendly and most comforting of ways, trying to communicate what he could, and determined to make Danny look him square in the face. "Out of everyone you know ... and I mean this sincerely ... I know how to handle PTSD issues, Danno. And I know you, buddy. So ... please. Just … if you think it might happen or if this sort of thing ever happens again … _call me_ , Danno. Just call me … _please_. Promise me that, all right? We'll talk it out like this again … or, not. Whatever you want to do ... but, if you want this to be a secret? Then fine ... it's safe with me. But Danny, you don't have to do this on your own ... and besides, I don't want you to. Deal, partner?"

"Yeah. Okay, deal," Danny muttered softly. There was a suspicious shine to his eyes as Danny grinned after a slight pause. He swallowed hard and managed a nod, his hand still shaking as he put the water glass on the floor, off to the side. He tiredly rubbed both hands over his face, his voice muffled as he spoke again. "Just ... thanks. And I really mean that ... I do. I've never been able to tell a single person this much ... I never had anyone I could tell who I felt would understand. Maybe it's how I wound up here tonight."

Steve couldn't hide his startled expression as Danny glanced up into his face. "Maybe," Danny repeated quietly. "Maybe I knew this was coming on ... so, yeah. It's a deal, Steve." His chin clenched and then relaxed. Danny shrugged helplessly at that point, his mouth opening and then simply closing. He'd completely talked himself out. And Steve had to grin at what had to be the first of all firsts.

"I got your back, Danno," Steve said in all honesty. "And if this is what it takes to help ... I'm here. Whenever you need to talk it out .. and I really mean _that_."

Steve didn't know else to say with what he then saw in Danny's face, the riff of emotion was much too fast for him to follow. But the agreeable nod, followed by a small smile … one that was genuine … the one that clearly thanked him for just being there? That said it all.

_**~ End. ~** _


End file.
